


the nearer your destination

by achilleees



Series: jack/parse tumblr prompts [5]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 09:32:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6189268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achilleees/pseuds/achilleees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Parse fought Averin because he was talking shit about you,” Max said bluntly. “And you being here is not going to put him in a <i>better</i> emotional state.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	the nearer your destination

**Author's Note:**

> anon tumblr request: _are you still writing jackparse? i have a burning need for parse fighting an opposing player over jack's honor_
> 
> this ended up waaay angstier than i meant for it to, and the fight is... not really the focus of the fic. so. my bad on that one. i hope you enjoy it anyway.
> 
> i guess i'm still taking jack/parse [tumblr](http://achilleees.tumblr.com/) prompts, given i wrote 2 in the last 24 hours, so if you have any burning desires let me know!
> 
> title from 'slip slidin' away' by paul simon.

“Suits you,” Jack said, seated cross-legged on Shitty’s bed.

“Yeah?” Shitty said, combing in some of his special-occasion mustache wax. He adjusted the jersey with affected pomposity. “I look good in black and yellow?”

“Please don’t start rapping,” Jack said. “But yes.”

Shitty grinned at him in the reflection of the mirror. “You know what it is, Jack,” he said. “What about crimson, how do I look in that?”

“Even better,” Jack said, meaning it. “Not that I believe for a second you own a single piece of Harvard memorabilia.”

Shitty thought about this. “Point,” he acknowledged. “I dunno, brah, not that the baby blue doesn’t make your baby blues pop, but I’m still not used to seeing you out of Sammy red.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Jack said. “Ready to go?”

“Born ready,” Shitty said. They checked their pockets for their wallets and keys, Jack’s fingers fidgeting at the smooth corner of his phone in his pocket as he waited for Shitty to lock up the apartment. They climbed into Jack’s car and Shitty - not for love or money was Jack driving in downtown Boston - backed out of the driveway. “Wicked cool of Parse to get us tickets,” he said.

“Yeah,” Jack said, looking out the window.

He could feel Shitty’s gaze on his face for a moment, but he had to look away pretty quickly to keep an eye out for potholes.

Good. Jack was feeling itchy enough already.

 

TD Garden was laid out well, Jack had to admit, even if the alternating black and yellow seats were hell on the eyes. The view from the box seats were great, but it didn’t seem like there was an angle in the place that was particularly bad.

Jack normally preferred sitting up against the glass, but there was something to be said for having room to pace.

Kent was… good. Eye-catching, as always - weaving around his teammates during the warm-up skate, tracing the TD Bank logo under the ice with the kind of crisp, efficient stickhandling that made so many announcers cream their pants over the years.

But god, it was a whole different level when he hit the ice for his first shift.

Jack had to wonder if it was as obvious to a casual hockey fan - if anyone could glance at the ice and immediately have their eyes drawn to that level of talent. If they, like he, found themselves utterly unable to look away.

Probably he was biased. Probably his eyes were stuck on Kent because there was a part of him that couldn’t help but picture where Jack would position himself if he were on the ice with him, that would always be ready to accept the pass from his stick.

Jack’s therapist was always saying that regret could be helpful, but only if you used it to correct the actions of your past. She said he needed to remind himself that there was no function in blaming himself for the outcomes that couldn’t be changed - in aching with loss over the choices to which there was no going back.

On some days, that was easier to convince himself of than others.

 

And then. And _then_.

Averin had been buzzing around Kent for the whole game, every time their lines were matched, and somehow Jack didn’t think he was doing it without Julien’s consent. A different sort of pest than Marchand - one without his scoring knack, which made him _completely_ useless in Jack’s book instead of ‘next to.’

He remembered Averin from their time in the Q, a year down from them and just obnoxious, the kind of guy who would pull every foul in the book as soon as he didn’t think the linesmen were looking. Jack used to hate playing Halifax just because of him.

Kent always brushed it off, though, nudging Jack and reminding him that Averin did it because he didn’t have enough skill to keep up with them. Jack vividly recalled multiple conversations with cliches like ‘ _Don’t stoop to his level_ ’ and ‘ _You’re just giving him what he wants_ ’ thrown around, like he was a little girl and Averin was following him around pulling his pigtails. But Kent wasn’t brushing it off this time.

Jack gave a grumble as Kent shoved Averin off of him with enough force that they both had to scramble to stay upright.

“He’s lucky he didn’t get high-sticking for that,” Shitty remarked. “Why isn’t Embree stepping in?”

“Kent must have told him not to,” Jack said, though he had no idea why.

“Give it another few minutes, I don’t think Embree’s gonna care anymore,” Shitty said.

Privately, Jack agreed, and he was none too upset about it. One more questionable check and Embree was gunning for Averin, and he might have been 30 pounds lighter than the Aces enforcer but Jack didn’t think anyone would give him the benefit of the doubt.

Except, bizarrely, Kent got there first.

“Holy shit!” Shitty said, leaping up with the rest of the crowd as Kent shucked his gloves and started to skate in a tight circle with Averin. “Um, what? Has he ever-”

“No,” Jack said distantly, leaning into the glass, both hands flat against it. “Never.”

“Shit,” Shitty said. “And he weighs, what, a buck-sixty?”

“About that,” Jack said. “No, don’t swing, _punch_ , Parse, punch!” He bit the inside of his cheek, tasting copper.

“Uh,” Shitty said, wincing. “A for effort, but -”

“He’s an undersized skill player,” Jack said, scowling. “You’re not gonna find Seguin or St. Louis on hockeyfights.com either.”

“Wasn’t a criticism,” Shitty said. “How many hockey fights you think I’ve been in, dude?”

Fair point. Jack watched with his heart in his throat as Kent got the absolute shit beaten out of him, spitting blood on the ice by the time the linesmen finally wrestled Averin off of him.

“But seriously,” Shitty said. “What the fuck was that?”

“I have no idea,” Jack murmured, watching Kent skate to the penalty box and wishing his expression wasn’t blocked by his helmet. He had no idea what he'd find there if it weren't.

 

Jack lingered in the away team’s tunnel, watching as the Aces filtered out to climb into the team bus that would take them to the hotel. They went by one after another, some of them shooting him and Shitty curious glances, but he watched the doors with hawk-like focus, waiting for Kent.

The “Zimmermann,” right in front of him made him jump. “Oh, hey,” Jack said.

“Dude,” Max said, clasping hands with Jack and pulling him into a shoulder bumping embrace. “What’re you doing here?”

“Visiting a friend in Boston, and Parse offered us tickets to the game,” Jack said, gesturing to Shitty. “Shitty, this is Max Levesque - we played in the WJC together a few years back. Shitty was at Samwell with me.”

“Nice to meet you,” Max said with a polite, if distant, smile to Shitty before he turned back to Jack. “But seriously, great to see you but I think you should go.”

Jack’s eyebrows shot up and he instinctively looked to Shitty to check if this made sense to him, and if Jack was the only one missing the logical leap in the conversation. Shitty was looking just as surprised, though.

“Um,” Jack said. “Why?”

“Parse fought Averin because he was talking shit about you,” Max said bluntly. “And you being here is not going to put him in a _better_ emotional state.”

“I don’t know if Jack ditching out without a goodbye would be any better,” Shitty pointed out.

Max grimaced, acknowledging this.

“What - I mean, what did he say?” Jack said, stunned.

“Just bullshit about your…” Max gestured, looking faintly embarrassed. “Asking Parse whether he’s still sucking your dick for access to your pills. Making bets on whether you’ll last a full year in the league without pulling a Mike Richards. I didn’t catch all of it, but it was just meaningless shit talking.”

Jack’s stomach roiled.

“Tabarnak,” Max breathed out, looking behind Jack’s shoulder. He pulled him into another hug, speaking quick and low in his ear. “It makes me happy to see you and I wish you all the best, but if you fuck him up any more, you and I will have words the next time we play. Understood?”

“Got it,” Jack said, and Max clapped his shoulder a little too hard and left. Jack rubbed his shoulder, thinking that he was glad Parse had someone to be protective of him, and hating himself for sounding so condescending even in his own head.

“Hey, Parse,” Shitty said, just as Jack turned to meet him.

“Hey,” Parse said, and they bumped fists. “Heard you got into Harvard Law - dude, mad respect.”

He was lisping around the S’s from the split in his swollen lip, free hand still cradling an ice pack to his eye. Jack had literally no idea what to say, in light of this new information from Max.

“You didn’t have to do that,” is what ended up coming out of his mouth. “Not for me.”

Parse slowly lowered the ice pack, eyeing Jack. The expression might have been shrewd if one of his eyes weren’t already purpling at the edges. “You sure you want to do this right now?” he said, disconcertingly softly.

Jack swallowed. “Shitty,” he said, turning his face towards him without looking away from Kent.

“I’m out,” Shitty said, lifting both hands and backing away. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

Jack fished his keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Shitty, who took off.

“Yeah, I know I didn’t have to,” Kent said as soon as Shitty was gone. “I guess I’m just that fucking stupid. I guess I’m just _that_ bad at not giving a shit.”

Jack wasn’t dumb enough not to take that as an accusation. “I give a shit,” he said.

“Dude, you’re not even wearing my jersey,” Kent said, lip curling.

“I don’t -” Jack started to say, but he swallowed his words.

“Yeah,” Kent said. “You don’t even have my jersey. Exactly.”

“That’s not even relevant at all,” Jack said, though he wasn’t sure he meant it. “And I _do_ give a shit. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“You’re here because your BFF is a Bruins fan and I can score you free box seats,” Kent said. “Don’t give me that crap.”

Jack was shaking, with rage or anxiety, he wasn’t sure. “If you believe that, that’s on you, not me,” he said lowly. “If you know me half as well as you pretend to -”

“Know you?” Kent shouted, and it echoed in the empty tunnel. “No, you’re right, I _don’t_ know you! I have no fucking idea who you are, because the Jack I knew was in it with me, and now I’m just fighting the current by my-fucking-self.” He shrugged his shoulders in a strange, jerky motion, like he was trying to shake off some weight.

“Then stop fighting,” Jack said, abruptly feeling as weary as Parse sounded. “Just…”

“If it were that easy, I would have stopped years ago,” Kent said, blinking over-bright eyes. “You’re gonna have to teach me how, Jack, because I’m not as good at it as you are.” He cursed under his breath, turning away, because the only thing he had ever hated more than being vulnerable was letting people see it.

Jack swallowed, chest feeling sore and tight. “It’s not easy,” he said. “I don’t know why you think it’s easy for me, because it’s not.”

Kent was silent, fingers fisted around the ice pack that dripped cold water onto the floor by his feet.

“I’m not you, Parse,” Jack said. “I don’t…” He gestured loosely. “You _do_ know me. You know that I’m not… expressive, I don’t…” He hated the tightness in his throat, the way the words wouldn’t come out right.

Kent sighed. “I know. I shouldn’t assume that the way you treat me is reflective of the way you feel about me,” he said.

“Exactly,” Jack said with a not insignificant amount of relief. Parse had always been good at that.

Kent scuffed his foot on the ground. “Yeah, but… I dunno. I’m always trying, and you’re… How many times have I called you and gotten your answering machine, and you just call me to get tickets to a game? How many times have I told you I missed you, and…” He leaned back against the wall, cracking his knuckles. “I got drunk one night and bought your home, away, _and_ alternate jerseys, and you, I mean, you… You signed with the Falcs and didn’t even tell me.”

God, the tone of Kent’s voice was enough to break Jack open inside.

“Parse,” he said softly. “Kenny…”

Kent gave a flinch, like the sound of his own name was too hard to hear.

“I am _always_ fighting against the current,” Jack said. “Every minute of every day. And I hate it.” His voice cracked. “And I wish like hell you were the sort of guy who knew how to give up.”

He drew over to Kent, slow enough that Kent had time to move away. But Kent just took in a deep, shuddering breath and tipped his head back against the wall.

Jack pressed their foreheads together, one hand fisted in the sleeve of Parse’s game day suit and the other splayed against the wall by his head.

“I miss you. I do,” Jack said, throat raw. He pressed his lips to the purple bruise at the corner of Kent’s eye, not quite a kiss. “Don’t you dare convince yourself otherwise.”


End file.
